


A Woman's Weapon

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Frottage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:39:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa knows how to get what she wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Woman's Weapon

It didn’t take her very long to realize that she could use her own pleasure to get what she wanted from him.

Cersei Lannister had told her about the varied weapons women have in their arsenal, and she had been right about that. But it had been Sansa who had realized that there was real pleasure in using these weapons, a pleasure beyond that of victory and success. There was the ecstasy of the act itself, on top of watching Petyr break and cave to her every wish in the direct aftermath.

This particular evening she can’t even really say what it is she wants. There isn’t anything tangible in her mind, nothing beyond the desire to see what he would do.

She slips into his solar while the castle sleeps around them, and he greats her with a wicked grin. Petyr scratches out a few more lines with his quill as she makes her way across the room, her footsteps light.

He settles back in his chair, relaxed and well aware of what is about to happen—she can see that in the way the corners of his mouth lift, the way he looks at her, as if she were a savory dish being set before him. He was never terribly good at hiding his excitement. “Do you require something, sweetling?”

Sansa says nothing, just gives him a coquettish smile as she closes the distance between them, settling into his lap without pause. Petyr’s hands are on her waist in an instant, his fingers digging into the silk of her gown, his need evident. And she can’t really lie to herself and say that that is not flattering, to have such a powerful man almost always at her mercy.

If only she knew what to do with him in the long run. Still, Sansa knows the importance of having him on her side, always willing to do her bidding.

She kisses him lightly, allowing him to savor the taste of wine on her lips, sliding her leg over until she’s straddling him in the chair. It’s not a terribly elegant position, but the heat of his body and the pounding in her chest seems to do away with any sense of discomfort.

She pulls back and brushes her lips against his ear. “I’m just coming to say goodnight.”

Petyr snorts as if he doesn’t believe her, but his hands are at her skirts anyway, working them up around her waist. She’s wearing stockings and nothing else, something she knows he realizes when she meets his eyes and sees the glint there.

“Wicked girl,” he says, clever fingers pressing at the juncture of her legs, finding her wet. He groans low in his throat and bites his lip as he teases her. His touch is exquisite as always, but she forces herself to wrap a hand around his wrist and drag it to the arm of the chair, ignoring the hurt and confusion in his eyes.

“Something else,” she explains, kissing him in an effort to ease him back to her. She pushes forward against the bulge in his breeches, and allows him to grip her waist again, fingers pushing into the skin until she knows he will leave bruises (she’s seen them before, counted every one in the mornings after, thought about how they were her battle scars, her marks of triumph). “This is all I want right now.”

Petyr laughs at those words, seeing right through her. She can’t help but join in.

And he knows well enough what she’s doing when it comes to _this_ , and meets every movement of her hips, his forehead touching hers, their lips brushing occasionally. She mirrors his rapid breathing, mind focused on her own pleasure. It’s almost always a near-silent act with them and she likes it that way. He always talks so much that these quiet moments make her feel uniquely privileged. She’s not sure he would be like this with any other woman, so vulnerable.

She quickens her pace, the friction from his wool breeches unbelievably good, the whole act so incredibly _wrong_ \--half-clothed, sprawled in a chair, it makes her feel dirty and delicious—and it’s not long before she finds her pleasure, gripping his shoulders. She can’t keep her eyes open which she regrets; she would love to see the look on his face. From just the way he looked at her when she entered the room, she can tell he is devouring her expression. 

As she comes down from her peak he pulls her almost suffocating close and comes, muffling his groan against her shoulder. She can feel the warmth spreading against the wool, and lets him claim her mouth once more, his teeth biting.

When her heartbeat slows she kisses him again, sweeter this time, and eases off his lap. Her skirts fall back, a bit wrinkled but not too conspicuous. She certainly doesn’t tell the story of what just happened like Petyr, in his ruined state, does. The thought of that pleases her beyond belief, and she thinks that perhaps this was what she was seeking when she came to him this night.

“Sleep well,” she says, her smile genuine.


End file.
